


To Tell You Honestly

by IncurableNecromantic



Category: The Sandman
Genre: Fratricide, Incest, M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/pseuds/IncurableNecromantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: Incest and dub-con here in.  A brief look at Cain and Abel's relationship, and a strange thing Cain does when he thinks Abel's corpse is the only one around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Tell You Honestly

It happened after they'd made love. It had been a standard affair, nothing new or fancy—although Cain wouldn't call it 'making love.' He'd call it something awful…call it 'fucking' or maybe 'shagging' or 'screwing.' Cain was breathing hard, still in his clothes, glasses off, as usual, bucking one last time before pulling out. Abel, with the little breath left to him in his rapidly-filling lungs, moaned softly. It hurt a little when Cain was done. It usually did. But darkness had crept over his eyes, and he was pretty sure he was about four breaths away from not breathing any more. 

It had been lovely, until Cain brought out the knife. A stiletto. Abel didn't want to know how his brother knew how to stab someone in the back and have them helplessly linger, but maybe that was just another one of Cain's awful tricks. Oh well. It would be over soon, and he could just think about the good parts of thing they'd just done.

Tonight was rather good. Cain had seemed to be in a good mood, smirking that devious smile—the one that didn't usually mean immediate death—the one that had a fire burning just behind his teeth. He'd come up behind Abel as he was doing the dishes and placed a filthy kiss on his neck, one that ended in a little bite and left a mark. Abel had wanted to squirm and wriggle, because Cain's beard and face tickled, but he held still and, maybe, shivered a little, and follow when Cain took hold of his tie and pulled him up the stairs and into bed. He knew what his brother wanted.

He had for so long now.

Abel knew that what they did was horribly wrong. Not just sodomy, but incest? Surely that had to be the worst thing in the world. And Abel was ashamed of it for so many reasons. Because he'd lost his virginity this way. Because he's lost his virginity to his own brother. Because their Creator, years after their creation, long after they were gone from his immediate purview, said it was bad. (He must've been thinking it the whole time.)

Because Abel liked it. Loved it. Always came back, always came for more, always was willing.

Because Abel knew that he loved his brother, and was hopelessly and pathetically in love with his bloodthirsty psychotic monster of a sibling, and he probably always would be. 

Because he loved Cain even when Cain was murderous and cruel and uncontrollable and sadistic and just plain mean, and he would try to think, forever, that Cain loved him, at least a little, against that small voice in his head that just kept telling him to stop being such a fool. 

He couldn't help it. He was in love with his brother. Maybe there had always been this little seed inside him that was always going to grow into that sickness. Maybe it was some weird effect of living in the Dreaming and being exposed to so much strangeness. Maybe it was just the way they were. Because he didn't stick to just one side, really...he was a victim and a masochist, all at the same time. He loved Cain despite the murder and the cruelty—because they hurt and Abel hated them—and he loved Cain because of the murder and the cruelty—because they were part of the way Cain was. He loved his brother for his voice and his horrible scary jokes and his adoration and devotion to his mysteries and for his beautiful honey-gold eyes and his incredibly complicated strange way of talking. He loved his brother for his hammy, ostentatious love of dramatics and sometimes he even loved his deceptively light (and therefore all the more frightening) threats. He loved his brother for Goldie and for coming after him into the Dreaming and for being all Abel had in this or any other world. He loved Cain for the sex, when it felt good. He loved Cain for choosing him, for whatever reason; he didn't want to know why, really.

They hadn't done it when they were alive. Or when they were…if they were, what they were. It was when they'd come to the dreaming, or about a hundred years later. One day Cain just started it. And it had hurt, and it was humiliating, but it was better by an enormous amount than being killed. And then, even though it hurt and it was humiliating, terribly so, it started to feel kind of…good. Which was horrible. Rape wasn't supposed to feel good! 

But it wasn't rape. Because Abel had protested just a little, and he was ashamed and guilt-ridden and hurt and horrified, but he wasn't…unwilling. But maybe it was, actually, because he'd said 'no.' But Abel didn't remember it like rape. It had just been…strange. Very strange. 

He'd been killed at the end, of course. Cain did it to him and Abel felt his brother splash inside him for the first time and then there had been a sharp noise like cracking bones and he'd died. A snapped neck, he guessed. Cain had lots of practice with those.

But tonight. Tonight had been all right, like he said, up until the stabbing. Cain had stripped him down to the skin, because, maybe it was a power thing, maybe despite all odds Cain liked the way his body looked, and Cain just took himself out of his pants and stroked himself hard and did it. (Abel learned quickly to keep himself lubed. It was uncomfortable to have all day, but it made everything so much easier…and Cain liked it. He'd liked it that very first time Abel did it, and the way he'd chuckled and called him a 'good boy' in the most raunchy way possible stuck in his mind as an indication of praise.) And Abel had been on his hands and knees on Cain's bed, with Cain's cock deep inside him, and moaning out loud, which was not too abnormal…sometimes Cain liked to gag him, but sometimes he'd rather hear him get noisy. And they'd made love and made love and made love…or fucked and fucked and fucked, depending on your preference, until Abel was about to lose it. Cain growled at him, told him to hold it, he'd better hold it or he'd flay him and dry his miserable hide on the roof, but he couldn't hold it. He lost control, because Cain had been pounding so hard on that little spot inside him that made him go cross-eyed, and it boiled in his balls until it finally was too much.

So Cain went in, and the knife went in, at the same time. And Abel didn't scream, but he whimpered, because he was still riding the rush when his lungs began to fill up with blood. Cain let loose a little, bucking and snarling and biting at Abel's skin, and then he'd finished inside. 

Cain pulled out himself and the knife, and Abel lay on the bed in the little lake of his own blood, listening to his heart slow, feeling his blood pouring out, and counting his last breaths. Three…t-two…one…

So he'd stopped breathing, his heart working too hard, blind, almost deaf and dumb, his brain scrambling for a way to keep him alive. 

But he could feel, a little, still. 

So he felt the moment when something warm neared the side of his face, and something soft and tickly brushed his skin, and something warm and firm and smooth, two somethings, pressed against his cheek. Warm, smooth things pressed against his neck to notice that his heart had stopped. Just another moment before the blood lost its oxygen…he was so close to dead…practically dead already.

"I love you, you fat oaf," whispered someone, someone who spoke low and soft. And Abel died, thinking, what?

\--

So time went by, as it does in any realm. And Abel watched his brother like a hawk, as he'd never done before. Because if that was just a dream, it was a cruel one, and one that did not fade. 

They lived. They had tea. Cain killed. Abel died. Cain dug graves. Abel got back out of them. They read their secrets and their mysteries. Abel played with Goldie. Cain played with Abel. Goldie demanded Cain's attention when Abel was 'indisposed.' They made love. It all went on.

But some nights, that dream came back, as he lay there, almost dead. Sometimes it said nothing. Sometimes it was just that warmth, that tickle (of a beard, he'd finally realized), that firm, warm press. It had taken months, just because it was all so unbelievable, but he finally realized that this must be his dream, after all, something that flashed in his mind as he died, and it was the thing he wanted most. So it would naturally be Cain, kissing him on the cheek, and sometimes saying something wonderful to him, something he would maybe be too shy to say when Abel was alive.

It went on. Until Morpheus' request for Cain. Cain had strode out with all the bravado and insolence that he'd ever had, leaving behind a long list of careful, exacting instructions for Abel to adhere to while he was gone.

Abel did his best, but he wasn't perfect. So some things weren't quite right, no matter how hard he tried. He knew he'd be punished for that later.

Except that he didn't see his brother actually come back. One day he'd gone into the House of Mysteries to do the dusting, like Cain wanted, and he found his brother there, in his bedroom, curled up in bed. His eyes were open, glasses off, scrawny arms clutched tight around a pillow. He looked about a million miles away and about a million years older, in his eyes. 

Cain looked scared.

That was enough to scare Abel.

He'd hurried away, trying not to let Cain know he'd seen him, and he asked Gregory about it. But Gregory hadn't seen him return either…just woke up this morning and there he was. 

Abel made tea. Caffeinated. With the buttery biscuits that Cain liked so much. And he shifted his weight and hesitated and feared and worried, and he brought up tea. 

Cain must've heard him moving through the house. When Abel came up, his brother was fully dressed and sitting on his perfectly made bed, only the deep, dark shadows around his eyes and the faint tremor of frazzled nerves betraying him as the creature that had been in his bed a moment before. Abel recognized that tremor. He'd had it himself for a long time.

Whatever had happened must have been horrible for his brother.

He didn't get any satisfaction out of that at all, no. He didn't want to see Cain hurt, ever! Maybe he should, for all the things Cain put him through, but…Cain shouldn't ever be hurt. It violated all sorts of natural laws! He couldn't be hurt! That was the point of the mark!

They sat silently, Abel in a small chair by the end table. They drank their tea. Cain ate a biscuit. Abel said nothing and was careful not to stare or sweat or do anything. 

Eventually Cain got up and left the room. Abel heard the water in the bathroom running, and he went and cleaned the tea dishes. Cain came down later and they sat quietly and read. 

After dinner they made love on the sofa. Cain didn't kill him. He didn't even hurt him much. He bit down on Abel's shoulder at the very beginning and just kept his mouth there, that exact position, eventually drawing blood. His brother touched him everywhere, like he was…it was Abel's fancy, of course, this couldn't be what Cain meant…like he was trying to find a way to just crawl inside him. Towards the end he even stroked Abel off. Abel didn't want to leave him alone that night, but Cain made no uncertain hostly noises about retiring to bed and Abel didn't have much of a choice. 

It was like everything Cainish about Cain has been sucked out, and there was just this shell going through Cain's motions.

He was really far too pleased, come to think of it, when Cain got angry the next day. He begged a little, because that axe was scary, after all, but when the darkness overtook him…he almost felt a little satisfied.

Eventually the tremor went away, and the circles faded, and Cain's swaggering smarm was less and less forced. His charming, temperamental, horrid brother was back

But Abel remembered it all.

And he found himself liking it all a little more, knowing more clearly what he stood to lose. 

\--

Then there were the ladies.

Abel didn't like to think much about the ladies. There was so much rushing in those days, so much panic…so much upset. He remembered arguing with them, showing them that they couldn't fool him, but they just did it anyway! They broke the rules! They weren't supposed to kill him…only Cain! They had a contract! And…and…

And he was safe with Cain. It made no sense, but it was true. When he was with Cain, well, Cain was the danger. Simple. But if anyone or anything else tried to touch him, Abel suspected, they woudn't get near him, because Cain was there. Cain was his only threat. Cain was his…protector, somehow, if that made sense.

It really didn't.

But he didn't want anyone else to kill him. Anyone else to even touch him, come to mention it. 

But the ladies broke the rules. They didn't know him. They didn't love him. And they killed him.

And he got this from Lucien, later, in that taciturn sensible passionless way the librarian put things: Cain had been upset. And then later he'd gotten from Matthew, who got it from a mixture of Merv and the Corinthian, that Cain had been even more upset about Abel than Lucien had been about Merv. (Which was really saying something, because Lucien had talked back to Dream, according to Merv. For Lucien, that was pretty much the equivalent of someone else tearing his clothes and throwing dirt in his eyes and outright sobbing and probably setting something on fire, too. Lucien, typically, didn't say much. And if Cain had been more upset than that…)

The Corinthian had it that Cain had been out of sorts and carried Goldie around in his pocket. He remembered poor Goldie's little high-pitched wail as he bled out on the floor. He hated he idea of Cain checking up on him to find him like that.

And Cain had pretty well ambushed Dream, demanding that Abel be brought back. He'd cooled his heels a little at the reprimand, but after the…change, he'd been right back at it. Insisting. Arguing.

Begging.

For Dream to bring Abel back. 

Cain.

Begging.

For Abel. 

He didn't credit it. It was absurd, insane. When he'd heard about it, after the wake, he couldn't believe it. But everyone who had been alive at the time confirmed it.

So marvelously strange. 

What he did know was that Cain killed him the next day for even less reason than usual. Just came up from behind and snapped his neck, quick as you please. He'd been a little hurt, honestly, that Cain fell back into nasty habits so quickly. 

But then he came back to the House of Mysteries. It was Cain's night to cook dinner, after all. He'd be expected.

So he was just back from the grave and feeling like he'd just changed over for not very much at all, and ready to give Matthew a piece of his mind for spreading about mean, hurtful lies, when Cain saw him in the hallway.

Cain stopped. Abel stopped, ready to cringe away. Two in a day was more than enough!

Cain blinked. Something took over him. He shivered. And he walked over to his brother fast and sure, and he did something absolutely bizarre.

He hugged him.

Cain. He couldn't really believe it. His Cain, his murderous, monstrous, licentious, wicked, utterly beloved older brother hugged him. While he was awake and alive. Both arms. Around him. Tight. Cain's chin on his shoulder. Just like that.

So Abel cried. He couldn't help it. Every moment he was waiting for Cain to push him away in disgust and order him to stop blubbing. To smack him. Or kill him.

Cain didn't. He fisted both hands in Abel's jacket and clung. He darn well clung.

And Abel cried because he was happier than he'd ever been. Happy to be alive, happy to be here, happy to be him. Relieved. Scared. In love. With the man holding him tight, the man who tried and failed, from the feel of it, several times to release him. His brother.

Cain muttered some things. Abel caught barely any of them over the noise of his own sobs. Cain let him press his face into the black turtleneck covering that skinny wiry chest, and he'd said things like 'come now' and 'really' and 'you stupid cretin, don't ever leave me again', in the softest, most whispery voice he'd ever heard. It was like his dream voice, exactly how he'd imagine Cain would sound if he ever wanted to whisper something special to him.

They didn't eat dinner. Cain took him upstairs and undressed him, and kicked off his own shoes and removed his eyeglasses. He didn't get anything out of the drawer—none of the whip or chains or handcuffs or crops or gags or feather or candles or balls or dildos or vibrators or anything at all. Except a tube of slick, which Abel wouldn't even have believed Cain owned. 

Cain moved slowly, working his way down from Abel's lips to his belly. It was like Cain had suddenly sprung extra pairs of hands, and they all suddenly wanted to touch him. He left little bruising nibbly kind-of-sweet kisses on Abel's lips, and wet, smooth bites down his neck. His hands went everywhere, tracing skin, rubbing, scratching, pinching, even tickling. Up and down his arms. Everywhere on his chest. Over his belly. Down to his aching prick, where he rubbed and stroked for several really lovely seconds. Oh, those hands, how could Abel possibly have missed those hands for this long?

Then, face-to-face, Cain took himself out and poured the slick into his hand, rubbing it over himself and hissing beautifully, his expression almost one of pain, the way he winced and panted a little. Abel spread his legs, almost shaking with anticipation. 

Cain pressed one hand down on Abel's thigh and used the other to guide himself in. He took his sweet time, giving Abel just a little inch, just the tip, in and out, teasing, until Abel finally started to beg. Cain smirked and gave him a little more, a little bit more at a time, until he was screaming his pleas, desperate to feel his brother inside him again.

Then Cain started to work him. Holding his hips down to the bed and pounding him, until Abel was crying out with every thrust. Boom. Boom. Boom. Right there, every time. 

Cain wrapped his hand around Abel's cock and began to really tug him off, biting and sucking at Abel's lips, some deep dark growl of a purr lingering in the back of his throat. Abel wrapped his arms around Cain's neck and his older brother didn't protest for a long time, not until he wanted to change things a little. He pulled out, making Abel whine softly in protest, and pushed Abel onto his side and came up behind him, back to chest, both of them on their sides, and Cain pushed back in. Abel groaned loudly. He hadn't been gone long, but Cain felt even better than he remembered…his brother was big, after all, and talented. Cain nibbled and kissed his shoulder and reached around to stroke Abel.

And Abel came that time, without Cain making a single threat or even saying a word. His older brother finished inside him. And Cain just held up his hand and, knowing what his brother expected, Abel licked his mess off of Cain's skin. He didn't like doing it, but if it kept Cain happy…

Feeling bold and warm and pleasured and very loved, Abel turned over and put his head on Cain's chest. Cain didn't say a word, just letting Abel lie there. Abel fell asleep that way.

In the morning, he woke up in the same bed, in the same condition as he'd gone to bed. Cain was nowhere to be found, but Abel had survived a night in Cain's bed. That had never happened before.

He felt so happy, he thought he might pop.

And weirdly enough, when Cain's more typical habits reared their not-really-very-ugly heads later in the day, Abel was actually rather excited to see that devious smile and the wicked curl of braided leather his brother was idly tracing through his fingers.

And when he wound up a few days later with another stiletto in his back, lungs filling up, he almost smiled. Warmth. Tickle. Kiss. Pulse-check. Whisper. "Don't ever leave me again. I love you, you blithering ignoramus." And Abel died thinking, I know.


End file.
